


Sweetgrass

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: BDSM, Gen, Hatesex, M/M, chapter one shenanigans, fantasies, it still baffles me that hatesex is not a tag, obvious implication that Ramza and Delita are fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21881023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Argath rides back through Mandalia plain.
Relationships: Delita Heiral/Argath Thadalfus, Ramza Beoulve/Delita Heiral
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Sweetgrass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atramento](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atramento/gifts).



He doesn’t like coming back to the breezy, sun-dappled place that was almost his grave. 

Tall grasses wave softly, parting gently as Argath rides through them. He remembers them as green, but this time of year all the slender, brittle stalks have turned golden and heavy at the tip with seed. 

He’s been back here a number of times, each more unsettling than the last, but it’s the first time he’d come to this place that sticks in his mind: the coach overturned with its doors splintered open, the chocobo that had been pulling it laying tangled in its harness with an arrow through its neck. 

Argath had crawled out of the wreckage, head still spinning, and had dodged the thrust of a blade purely out of luck. He’d scrambled to his feet and drawn his sword, only to find himself surrounded by rough men in rough clothing, the dregs of the troupe that had attacked the coach and taken the Marquis.

Ramza had appeared not long after to lend aid, but it was still a hard, bloody fight, untrained swords stabbing clumsily, boots trampling the grass and turning the soil to mud each time a man fell and spilled his blood over the earth. Argath had stepped backwards to avoid a blow and tripped over a dying thief who yowled in agony as Argath had landed heavily atop him. 

And then someone had grasped him by the arms and dragged him to safety, laying him out on clean grass on the side of a hill, thrusting a potion into his blood-slick hands and charging forward into the fray again.

That had been someone who, unlike Ramza, had all the height and breadth of a man grown and looked so much the part of a soldier that Argath had been shocked to learn that he was only a knight’s apprentice-- and a boy, barely older than he was. 

Delita Heiral, a common-born son of a chocobo farmer who’d been taken in by Barnabeth Beoulve as a charity, and whom Ramza tolerated for his usefulness. More than tolerated: Ramza, who was the soft-hearted type that had a fondness for animals, treated Delita as an equal. They wore the same clothes, ate at the same table, sometimes shared the same tent at night. 

It baffled Argath, and over the next few months as they travelled together, it began to irritate him. Folk in Eagrose who saw Ramza would greet him as “Lord Beoulve,” and then turn to Delita and add “Ser Heiral,” though Delita had never been knighted and couldn’t be, without noble blood running through his veins. But it seemed everyone had fallen in to play this little game of pretend to please Ramza, a game that Argath thought aggravating, like having to humor a child who’d claimed to slay a dragon. Such was the same as having to pretend Delita deserved all the trappings of a noble.

Argath had explained all this to Ramza. He didn’t believe Delita was their equal any more than a chicken was a chocobo’s equal. But Ramza did believe it, with his whole heart, and could not be persuaded otherwise. They had been raised together, he said, they were as close as brothers. Closer, now that they’d seen battle together. 

Closer. That was what had set a bell ringing in Argath’s mind. He marked how fit Delita was, how well he rode, how dark his eyes and hair were, how serious the line of his mouth. And he marked how often Delita shared a tent with Ramza, which was more often than not these days. 

Well. They said Ramza’s father had lain with a common courtier to get him. Why wouldn’t Ramza do the same? It held some appeal, Argath had to admit, having a servant like Delita, and a grateful young man might bestow all manner of gifts on this servant, even to the point of unbecoming excess. 

Riding beside that servant in Mandalia, Argath found himself thinking again how rough those encounters must be, judging by the size of Delita’s hands and the muscles in his back and thighs. Delita, his hand fisted in Ramza’s hair, pinning him down with his weight, his breath hot on the back of his neck. Muffling cries of pleasure into the palm of Delita’s hand. Moving with aching slowness, trying not to alert the rest of the camp. 

Argath shifted in his saddle. Delita glanced over, silent, but even the motion of his shoulders as he adjusted his chocobo’s rein caught and held Argath’s attention now that he knew, and he feared the rising heat in him meant his face was growing red as well. He kept his eyes forward, but the jingle of harness, the creak of Delita’s boot in the stirrup, the whispering of the grass as they moved through it came together like a play in Argath’s mind: the jingling of buckles coming undone under shaking fingers, the creak of a bedspring, a fervent whisper against heated skin.

Delita’s skin would smell of earth and sweat, Argath decided, and would be smoothest on the inside of his thigh, where a touch would raise goosebumps. His muscles would stiffen and quiver as he fought his bonds-- his wrists bound high above his head, all scars and bruises bared. He’d throw his head back like a bull chocobo and grunt in pain as Argath brought the switch down, marking an angry red stripe across the breadth of his shoulders. He’d add more to that, but that first blow would be sweetest, biting into virgin flesh.

“I said, don’t lag behind, I thought I saw a panther hunting these hills,” Delita calls. “Best to stay together so it doesn’t try to pick off any stragglers.”

“Right,” Argath replied weakly, then, clearing his throat, “Right. Coming.”

He spurred his mount forward, leaving memory and fantasy behind in the tall, whispering grass.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday gift for a very dear friend. Said friend loves them some hatesex.


End file.
